


without any strings attached

by wellthatdepends



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 06:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20092807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatdepends/pseuds/wellthatdepends
Summary: he understands her perfectly





	without any strings attached

**Author's Note:**

> I have not written anything in the longest time, but who knew I would find such a sweet ship in such a violent show? Not I!
> 
> Title from the song 'Two' by Sleeping At Last. All mistakes my own - I've drunk too much wine and edited this the best I possibly could in my current state. I hope you enjoy.

His maman would read him fairytales when he was a boy. This, Frenchie remembers vividly; stories depicting resilience in the face of adversity, serving as cautionary tales for children. He never thought much of it, wouldn’t think much of it until he was an adult, and even then not for long. There was always a high that would help him to forget. 

But he remembers these childhood stories wrapped in darkness, these happy endings that were few and far between.

Before his father took him away.

(_The end._)

Kimiko.

Kimiko. Kimiko. _Kimiko_.

He falls asleep with her name on his lips most nights, rolling the syllables slowly, silently over his tongue. Like a chant, or a prayer, he’s not sure. But what he knows is that it puts him at ease, relaxes him, more than the drugs ever did.

(Since Compound V, he’s less drawn to that particular habit.)

Sometimes he wants to just cut and run. Take her in the middle of the night; jump on the first train to Montreal. He has a guy that could get them fake passports and papers. He could wear a suit, she a pretty dress and they could pretend to newlyweds, heading towards adventure. Montreal would be easy, Montreal would be safe and _merde_, it’s so easy to dream of that life, to _want_ that life.

So easy for him to close his eyes and _live_ that life.

But-

(And there’s always a _but_-)

_\- _But there’s MM. There’s Hughie. There’s Butcher. All of whom have people out there in the world, people they’re trying to make their way back to.

Kimiko too; a brother an ocean and a jungle away. 

So he stays. And he fights.

He buys her a scrubbing brush, to get the blood out from under her nails. Little nail polishes too; she likes the pinks and oranges of sunsets and the greens and blues of the ocean and he’s only too eager to oblige.

MM smirks and Butcher scoffs and Frenchie doesn’t care what either of them think, not when she paints them so carefully, blows on them so gently, and smiles so beautiful at her handiwork.

_Lovely, mon coeur _he murmurs quietly. He wants to hold her hands in his, place kisses on her bruised knuckles. Wants so much, but settles for words.

And when she turns to smile at him, he doesn’t know how he could want anything more 

Sooner or later, they run.

They’re used to it to the point that it’s almost _routine_. She grabs the guns, he grabs the bags, and they grab one another. Her grip is painful, but he relishes it, and hopes she can feel his desperation to match.

(_I’ll never let go, mon coeur._)

This time, it takes them two days to reach the meeting place. They hide in a scrap yard, inside an old van. It’s not all bad; there’s a makeshift mattress and no signs of rats nests. _Small victories_, he tells her gleefully and is rewarded with a hint of a smile. He waits until the heat’s died down enough for them to venture back out into the streets, and they spend this time playing poker with a deck of cards he finds in the glove compartment. She’s a quick learner and they play for candy and he doesn’t even care when she cleans him out; his overconfident hand of three aces beaten by her straight.

The meeting place is a diner in a bad part of town with a bored waitress who serves them watery coffee and a scrap of paper with an address. Kimiko eyes the menu and Frenchie follows her lead, ordering them both waffles.

It’s been two days. What are a couple hours more?

A lot, apparently, by the way Butcher carries on when they finally make it to the new safe house, a dingy apartment not far from the diner. Goes absolutely fucking mental, carrying on about missions and objectives, how they’re trying to take down Vought and the Supes, not going on weekend getaways.

Frenchie’s objective? Keep Kimiko _safe_.

(And if Billy Butcher doesn’t like that, well, _tant pis_.)

Hughie’s girl comes round from time to time, usually with bad news; warnings of new information Vought has on them or revelations of even more atrocities committed by the corporation.

Because dosing babies and creating Supe terrorists wasn’t _bad_ enough.

They are two ends of the spectrum, Kimiko and Starlight. One who knows no other life, her powers a part of her identity, a part of _her_. She’s created a persona, a brand based on her abilities, and can control and wield them how she likes. Starlight doesn’t _fear_ what she is – she _embraces _it.

And the other? Ripped from away from her home and forced into a life she never asked for, not once, but _twice. _Frenchie is well versed in the shitty cards dealt by the universe, but Kimiko’s hand makes his look like a winner.

_Does she need anything?_ Annie asks, uncertain. Like it’s not her place, like she’s imposing, and Frenchie thinks that maybe Hughie has told her things, told her things about Kimiko, about _them_, resulting in something akin to hesitancy.

She’s looking at Kimiko, who has since gotten use to Starlight’s random visits and has stopped monitoring the other woman’s every move, instead opting to start to roll out the pastry for their tarte tatin. Sensing their gaze, she glances up at them, but he’s quick to reassure her with a smile.

_Well? Does she?_

A time machine, for a start. But he’s not about to antagonise Annie who, for all intents and purposes, is extending an olive branch.

(After all, that’s Butcher’s job.)

_Piping bags, _Frenchie answers, snapping back to reality, _and food colouring. _

(There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek; her hair tied back with _his_ bandana. It makes him smile, makes him feel warm all over. Makes him feel _full_.)

_I’m going to teach Kimiko to make macarons. _

There are scars on his legs and scars on his back and when he wakes, they are _burning_.

The nightmares are more common now that he’s stopped with the drugs. More vivid too and when he touches his cheek he knows that the dampness isn’t sweat, but tears.

In his dreams he sees his father, a smoky, dark, ominous haze. He sees his mother, but only from the corner of his eye, never in his direct line of sight. She is, instead, the sound of her voice, the scent of her perfume, the gentleness of her touch. He never sees her face and, if he’s honest, he probably doesn’t remember it anyway.

(She is brown eyes and dark hair and the softest, most beautiful of smiles.)

He wakes gasping; not loud enough to wake the boys, but loud enough for _her. _She’s by his side in an instant, fists clenched, battle ready. Eyes darting from the window to the door, ready to strike.

_It’s okay, mon coeur, _Frenchie breathes, _it was just a dream_.

Hands unclenching, she perches beside him. In the darkness her eyes are bright. His maman is a dream and his père is a nightmare and neither of them is real, but she is; tangible and right _there_, within his reach, close enough to _touch_.

He won’t, though.

But _she_ does.

Legs uncurl, body stretching and coaxing him onto his side. She curls up against his chest, fingers entwining and pulling their clasped hands to rest between them. Her eyes, so expressive, intentions so clear that maybe they’ll never need _words_.

He understands her perfectly.

One of the stories his mother read him was _The_ _Little_ _Mermaid_ – not the bullshit Disney version, but the Dutch original. He doesn’t remember too many details, remembers instead thinking it ridiculous that such a magnificent creature would give up her life for a _man_, and the sad, wistful smile that graced his mother’s face when he told her so.

_We give up much for love, mon coeur_, she kissed his head and smoothed back his hair, _you will see_.

For a long time he couldn’t, but now?

Now he would give up his legs, his voice, his _life_ if it means that Kimiko can one day find her way home.


End file.
